Absinthe Golden Boy
by Iron Wolf of Winterfell
Summary: "Amongst the most popular cautionary tales circling on the small, lost villages of the valley, were the ones involving the beginning of the darker half of the year and have your mind poisoned with words." For the longest time, the young French lord Francis Bonnefoy has not been alone in his dreams. At night he would always show up, wrapped in mystery and gold. FrUk


**Absinthe Golden Boy**

* * *

On a country filled with the drunken vicissitudes of luxury and passion, the aristocracy lived the happiest of existences in their own surreal world.

Amongst the wealthy, life held a different meaning than for the common folk.

Opulence ensnared their senses and discernment and with it came the preposterous belief that they were eternal, their power and influence would never fade away.

Even death couldn't affect them, such displays of the human ephemerality had no place on their universe, and it was ignored as if it had never existed.

With such beliefs, the aristocracy who lived buried on their megalomania and false appearances, were not aware of the legends and tales that roamed the land.

Peasants had to entertain themselves with a sense of dismay and dread hanging over their heads at all the times. They thrived with their counterfeit misfortunes.

Amongst the most popular cautionary tales circling on the small, lost villages of the valley, were the ones involving the beginning of the darker half of the year and have your mind poisoned with words.

But those common ailments were the work of simpleton minds and weak spirited peasants, who spent their lives afraid of shadows.

How could such low bred diseases affect those who were born blessed by the gods of fortune?

The aristocracy had mounted an impenetrable defensive wall of indifference and arrogance between them and the rest of the world.

Dark creatures were aware of this flaw on the nobility, they were always watching, manifesting their presence through shadows and lurking for the next inconspicuous victim.

* * *

L'Écume château was a place of mystery and wonders. Built in the middle of a meadow, its ivory glow shone brightly on the setting sun, resembling a pearl lost in the wilderness of the forest that grew around it.

As the name suggested, the château portrayed a state of delicacy almost too fleeting for the human life, perhaps the most equitable home for the one whom this story talks about.

Like the château, his figure seemed too ideal, golden locks falling on his elegant shoulders with the utmost natural grace, the blue eyes who revealed nothing more than he wished to, an azure sphynx on his gaze keeping his secrets safe paired up with his soft mouth that whispered what people wanted to believe of him.

Young lord Bonnefoy, named Francis by his late mother, opened himself with everyone and yet rarely let people know his true self.

Since an early age, precociously cunning he was, Francis had comprehended how to deliver himself to the world and yet to never be understood. He would be image that others assumed of him, thus protecting himself.

How the aristocracy loved him, the deviations of the young French lord.

Francis so artfully indulged himself on the sly games the court would provide and its displays of vanity, the soft sighs of hidden lovers in the shadows, clawing so blissfully on each other's skins, and holding in their passion until the final momentum, where they would howl at last their last primal sounds to the wind, slaying any signs of purity left. The court would make their existence around the feeding of the greatest pleasures of life and Francis had mastered such skill to the levels of perfection.

But for all his cosmopolitan attitude and sheer carnal avarice on his brief affairs, as he would never allow anyone to get so close to his heart, he had a bucolic soul.

Francis would often seek the refuge on the faery solitude of his marbled château, ivory towers crowned with dark pinnacles resembling dark dahlias melting on the night sky observing its courtyard, its spiked gate (the only form of architectural defence present on that chateau) and the landscape around it, a forest as far as the eye could reach, coloured with misty pastels as if the wildlife of those surrounding had been touched by the hand of Degas himself.

The natural state of real life embellished by the talent of a great master.

All the best for the young Frenchman, Orpheus reincarnated amongst his peers, and warranted to walk upon that earthly Elysium.

Francis used to smile indulgently as he strolled down the Champs Élysées of Paris, fully knowing that he was stepping on a fake paradise, as the real one laid right outside his château.

Francis did not had many visitors at L'Écume, to live in such château came with the price of solitude; into the Elysium, into the exile.

Despite such loneliness, sometimes he enjoyed the company of two of his closest friends by the daytime, the only ones who Francis would trust.

Don Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, of the muy nobre house of Carriedo, with his lively green eyes and brunet countenance, had all the brightness that a young lord from Andalucía was expected to have.

He would often tell stories of his beloved Spain, especially about Granada, his hometown.

With his funny French accent, sometimes slipping some Castilian words when too excited or was unable to remember its French synonym, Antonio narrated all the magic and enchantment that the city held. Once a land of Moors, now it rested at the foothills of Sierra Nevada, where the sun would redden the luxurious pomegranates resembling precious jewels coloured as arterial blood spilling from the trees, thus giving the name to the city.

And how would the young Spanish lord sigh in melancholy when recalling the Alhambra at sunset, the longing he felt for the scent of sweet spices and flowers on the warm afternoon while observing the faraway fortress on a hilltop, its stones dyed with the colour of fire and behind it the snowy tops of the mountain chain painted with a pink madrigal hue.

Such tenderness for the simplest beauties of life did not matched the court at all and at first, Antonio was seen as someone utterly uninteresting, a provincial fool no better than a mere peasant.

Francis, always attentive to the whispers of the court but pretending to never be involved on such affairs, took an interest on the Spanish boy simply because he wanted to witness what could be so unappealing about his character.

Indeed Antonio possessed a kindness that many thought to be lost and bear no ill thoughts about anyone and as such Francis saw their friendship quickly grow simply because he did not had to pretend all the times around Antonio.

From the North arrived the other companion of Francis, unrelenting on his opinions but his behaviour in general so uncommon for someone from those Germanic lands, Gilbert Wolfgang Weillschmidt, Prince of Hohenzollern of Prussia was considered the embodiment of a hurricane by the French court. Gilbert did not held his tongue nor wished to, he was direct but witty, showing a sharp sense of humour. Too many years being forced to refrain his words on his own court had caused a complete nonchalance on his behaviour as soon as he saw himself on the foreign. At last he could speak freely!

He was looked upon with curiosity but also with a glimpse of mockery by all. The Prince was indeed a delight to talk to, providing that the person was prepared to receive a full-blown honest answer to their question, often accompanied with his loud, joyful laughter. He meant no harm but he despised lying.

No, the court could never count on Gilbert for their vanity fair, he was not interested in putting the same mask of falseness that he was forced to wear back in his country.

His bright intellect was soon admired amongst people, as the Prussian cultivated a deep love for literature and was always happy to indulge into academic discussions about several issues but behind all the words of praise, hid scorn about his looks.

The future heir of the house of Hohenzollern had an undeniably curious appearance, with a fair skin without any shade of pigmentation, an unmistakably blanched hair and alarmingly strange red coloured eyes, Gilbert was viewed as a fairly odd looking individual. A family trait, he claimed, noticeable only on some members. A cousin of his from the east was also afflicted with the same eye condition.

With such peculiar looks and strong personality, Francis simply had to engage a conversation with the Prussian prince.

Ah, but he was immensely amusing, how Francis laughed with Gilbert for countless hours, he was indeed capable of chasing boredom away with his banters.

Antonio and Gilbert for being so different from the rest of the court, one for his kindness and the other for his honesty, were the ones whom Francis felt most comfortable around. He who was the epitome of marvel for the aristocracy, preferred those who behaved so against the norms of the court.

Both the Spanish lord and the Prussian prince were perfectly aware of Francis' loneliness therefore their visits were regular and constant, such lovely place and interesting host who valued friendship above all, did not deserved to be left alone.

Oh but how could they have known as the Frenchman had never spoken a word concerning the subject, how could they had ever been aware of the late night visits that Francis received at home?

If they had known…

* * *

 **Author's Notes: I honestly don't know what to think of this. The idea came to me a couple of weeks ago and I had to try my hand on it.  
Since this is supposed to be a short story, I'll probably finish this soon but let me know what you think. I hope you liked it, this actually came to me quite naturally.**

 **I'm old school on this fandom, I grew used to spell Gilbert's surname with a 'W' and old habits die hard, only in this case it's impossible to slay it so please bear with me**

 **L'Écume château's name was chosen purposely to make a reference to Boris Vian's work "L'Écume des Jours" (The Foam of the Days). I believe that the title in English is "Froth on the Daydream".**

 **Darker half of the year = Samhain/Hallow's Eve**


End file.
